Who pays $61 for BBQ pork? I didn’t mind it so much. This dream…
I saw everyone I’m supposed to see up and down a smoky corridor. They’re making fun of me. Still, the band plays on. A piece of sinew is stuck in my teeth, as I search for the exit.
Who pays $61 for BBQ pork? I didn’t mind it so much. This dream…
I saw everyone I’m supposed to see up and down a smoky corridor. They’re making fun of me. Still, the band plays on. A piece of sinew is stuck in my teeth, as I search for the exit.
you are a composite facsimile
drawn into me, we’ll wait for the bullshit disorder to check out of this random
hotel room, a shirt and tie, the sea below, my childhood neighborhood in Aiea
where I never met you yet
you wait for me, taller, sometimes taller than I could ever imagine, this looming
shadow of a darling tree, its extended branches dangling, twisted, caught in my hair
“Say yes, Carol.”
Yes, yes, yes to freedom and pleasure, and the sex between our twisted legs.
He says he will wait forever, he swears
he smells the locks of my hair in this perfume I shoplifted at the airport.
I leave him holding my scarf to his mouth. It is a compelling final image.
A few reviews ago, I stumbled over the use of “abysmal bliss” and “abysmal static” in referring to the overall effect of ambient jazz. You know, the background music we hear in movies that is supposed to enhance our enjoyment and the writers’ subliminal intentions.
That’s how I feel about the constant insertion of gratuitous T&A sex scenes on TV and in movies. If I wanted to see porn, I could download porn.
I’m currently in the sixth season of “Mad Men” on Netflix. I got into this 2007-2015 period series (after the fact), because I wanted to see the characters’ creative process in the advertising world. If I saw groovy period pieces from the 1960s in the bargain, cool.
Without knowing anything more about the series other than what I’d seen in passing on awards shows and in “People,” I dove in a few months ago.
The constant fucking nearly sent me packing. I did not sign up for this.
I don’t think I’m a prude. People say I can be quite crass, graphic and dirty in my delivery style. I’m hardly the type of delicate flower who needs her smelling salts every time some chick’s considerable bosoms heave.
But, I’d rather not see those bosoms heave in my face when there’s an important job to be done, or group hijinks to be had.
Nothing ruins a hit TV show or movie for me faster than women appearing simply for the sake of men getting their rocks off. Or, for lonely female viewers getting their romantic rocks off and organizing yet another tired supercouple stan club — the death of soaps for me.
In 2001, I couldn’t wait to see the World War II period movie, “Pearl Harbor,” in a theater. I thought the movie would be about, you know, Pearl Harbor, the Japanese dropping bombs, the military aftermath, strategy, Americanism, internment camps, what this did to Hawaii, where I’m from, conflict and tension over patriotism and doing the right thing on the battle field. I wanted to see Cuba Gooding reacting to the barely simmering racism vs. nationalism going on during that time frame.
Instead, I got a chick flick, featuring British babe Kate Beckinsale (Lt. Evelyn Johnson McCawley). Lt. McCawley hijacked a potential blockbuster about WWII in Hawaii and turned it into some boring romance — for me at least.
I wouldn’t have minded a Japanese- or Polynesian-American actress in a side love story in the midst of this war over racial power. But there was very little chance of that happening in white Hollywood (I saw very few Japanese or Polynesian actors and actresses).
But, this chick in her own little chick flick romance just had to take over, to the point where I almost walked out of the movie and demanded my money back. I kept waiting for the “Pearl Harbor” WWII payoff. It never came.
The movie was more about who Lt. Evelyn loves than an actual war.
I saw this same trend in countless other movies and TV shows, including the U.S. version of the dark British comedy, “The Office.” Pam and Jim became their own soap opera within a hit sitcom in short order, their stans almost obsessive in seeing their primetime supercouple front and center at all costs, at the expense of a once-priceless comedic ensemble, featuring some of the most amazing comic finds of our generation.
One of the reasons I think I enjoyed “Breaking Bad” so much was that TPTB kept the chick flick aspect down to a minimum, and only serving the main theme surrounding a Science teacher gone bad.
“Mad Men” is admittedly a hard show to warm up to anyway. Its characters ruin almost every good moment by inexplicably lashing out. They can be unapologetically, mercilessly brittle to brutal, rude af, infantile, selfish, self-serving, and nauseatingly routine in their endless need for sex, booze, and power-mongering.
IMHO, they only shine when they come together in the office for the greater good: the nuts and bolts, the glamorous sheen of advertising. I love watching them brainstorming a million ideas for an ad campaign on deadline (the episode with the B12 shot was my jam) for days on end, on into and through the weekend and holidays.
Their brainstorming sessions remind me of my own past deadlines in a news/magazine office, including the goofy, crazy hilarity that would always ensue when insomnia met desperation.
But as far as I can remember, none of us turned into a porno, fucking everything in sight.
I’m sure this was the norm with Mad Men in the ’60s, a different time from the one I grew up in. It’s just not my thing.
Every time a hot chick goes near the main character, Don Draper, I cringe, because I know the rest of the fucking episode will go to waste, to hell with the deadline, meetings blown, everything coming to a screeching halt while TPTB devote camera time to Don and his whores, slurping lips, dick swinging, jiggly ass spreading bullshit.
What value do these whores have, really? What do they have to do with the art of advertising?
If you’re going to put a woman in a TV or movie, give her a meaningful role, give her some power, give her a story we can understand, where she grows stronger, or weaker, or effect some goddamn change other than in the dick.
I would’ve enjoyed Creative finding a way to make Fleischmann’s margarine sexy, not watching Don Draper sneak away for more sexy time with yet another pliable sex doll in fly ’60s threads.
Draper’s the best when he rises to the advertising occasion — that Chevy ad was pure brilliance — not to every Faye, Joy, and Sylvia.
And what does that say about us as a society? We watched in droves during the height of “Mad Men.” In droves.
Ever been haunted by recurring dreams?
I’m not talking about haunted dreams, but a haunting. Not so much scary but heartbreaking torment. I imagine ghosts who aren’t ready to leave have a helluva time of it in purgatory, watching these people they’ve become attached to move on with their lives while everyone walks through them. I’ve had those dreams too. They always leave me feeling extremely exhausted, empty as the 5th of July.
In this morning’s recurring dream, I’m back on Juniper Street, Ft. Dix, N.J. The neighborhood’s gone. Empty tracts. One modern, slate-grey building surrounded by greenery on a slanted hill, brand-new sidewalks…left standing. Only, the air is thick, like the humidity of Indian summer, surrounding stranded objects with this cloudy, smoky haze: The Dobbs’ rusty lawnmower, set of lawn chairs from Woolworth’s, two eyeless dolls, a dog collar, my dad’s Army dog tags.
Obviously the haze represents the past. I’ve left this street behind. I’m older now.
I’m inside the modern building, asking these employees with a thick New York accent about the neighborhood before. They can only trace the last decade, which does me no good. They talk up the latest photographic line of equipment. Oh, so it’s that kind of store.
At the same time I’m telling them about my year and a half on that street, my mind sends me to other places, my old high school with brand-new students. This red/blond-haired boy slows down as he passes me and my friend, glances my way on purpose, then stands just a little ways ahead, at the curve of the school driveway waiting for his ride. He gives off the sense that he wants to linger. I go to him, suddenly shy, but he’s already with a friend, so we close off. I’m his age now.
I remember Bobby’s blond hair, my husband’s.
“Where did Bobby go?” I keep asking.
“You have Google,” they reply. “You already know.
“That’s not what I mean.”
When I wake up, I want to go back so badly. I want to try again. Only, this time, I want to do all my living before I’m 26, before my body begins to disintegrate on the fast track through my mortal coil. I’m far from the only one at this party.
Everybody has an expiration date, some earlier than others. Not always determined by dying, either. Maybe by a previously undiagnosed disease that rears its ugly head prematurely. Maybe another ticking time bomb that went on undetected. Maybe a minor health matter left unattended, metastasizing into this great big deal breaker for any first date.
Without getting into health-related specifics, in my case, I was viable up until college. I could’ve held on to some pair-bonding asset for five more years. Had I gone to doctors and dentists right away in 8th grade…perhaps, perhaps.
If I knew I would rot away from the inside out at this faster-than-normal rate, I would’ve made my first time with Bobby in the summer of ’77. I would’ve felt his bare chest against mine in the woods, knowing the risk. Not caring, because I could see ahead, I could see nothing but heartache, missed opportunities, and bittersweet, pointless death. I could see for the both of us.
I would’ve given him my virginity then and there. We would’ve found a way to make love as often as possible before it was too late, before I moved, and he died anyway — long before his 40s.
Do you know what I mean? He died anyway.
Dying firelight in the woods before Juniper turned to Maple.
I would’ve made love more, slept less.
Travel. Lord, I love living out of a suitcase — the ultimate high, my very first love. Seen the Cliffs of Dover, driven around the Ring of Kerry, thrown myself on the mercy of romantic Victorian literature at Poets’ Corner, sipped grand crème in Paris, rode the train to Stuttgart and back, tried paella in Spain, found Ian Mitchell (Bay City Rollers) and fucked him too.
I would’ve done all of these things before I turned 30, if I was lucky. I’m not sure I would’ve ever married. Not this next time. Maybe not ever again.
I have a feeling I wanted to see what it was like, behind the white picket fence inside those rows of warmly lit houses with the farmhouse tables and the roaring fire. I pressed my nose to their windows so many times. I couldn’t take it anymore.
Well, now I know.
If I’m foolish enough to keep coming back, I’m either going to devote myself to bettering humanity like Mother Teresa or I’m going full-on back into Roman debauchery, where I originally started. None of this back-and-forth, seesawing, hemming and hawing bullshit.
That’s kind of how I am. Half of me knows I have to lead this pure life, to dig and dig to find what’s important and devote myself to it. Take a bullet. Die a saint.
The other half? Every so often, a dream, an image, a piece of music, some stupid TV movie will remind me of the fairy tales that were never a part of my life — and my heart will burn for some of that. When it does, a voice inside my head reminds me to, “Watch it like a movie, Carol.” Because maybe that’s all it is, a pretty movie that doesn’t involve me, like all the ones I used to watch as a child, wishing I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up.
My husband treated us to a night of surprising jazz from the most unlikely place, a private Seattle high school near Capitol Hill.
I brought our own high schooler James, 15, to the final showing Nov. 4 at the Seattle Academy Upper School. He hadn’t been to a live performance of anything since “Lion King” in 2014 when a musician friend played his guitar parts in the orchestra pit of the Paramount Theatre. That was a thrill, seeing actors in their gigantic animal costumes stroll down the aisle toward the open stage. Man!
As soon as he was old enough to sit still, I would take our son to children’s musicals at the Seattle Center, in hopes he would get bit by the acting bug or, at the very least, appreciate the performing arts. He’d go kicking and screaming, but when the curtain came down, he always demanded an encore. He watched with rapt attention, taking everything in, on and off the stage. Later, bursting to meet the actors, as well as check out the set design up close, asking where the sounds came from, why did that light turn red from blue?
He even took a few performance classes, nothing serious unfortunately. I’d also hoped to move him up to acting. He was too young at the time; just a few more years. But in a few more years, he grew to love sports (namely, soccer) more, abandoning the musicals of his early youth.
I’d hoped the same fire would return watching the performance of “City of Angels,” the Tony-Award-winning Broadway musical based on 1940s film-noir detective stories. Alas, his easily bored teenaged soul yearned to be back home watching “Stranger Things” on Netflix, chowing down on Uber Eats and Snap-Chatting.
With a musical steeped in the 1940s, there had to be the requisite jazz numbers. The band in the modest orchestra pit tucked underneath audience risers had to be slamming. And, they were. My husband led the band on piano. I saw at least three of his Nearly Dan (Steely Dan tribute band) members in the horn section. Nearly Dan creative leader Jack Klitzman on reeds was the one who got Ed on the gig in the first place for a four-night run.
Ed got a kick out of going back into high school theater, meeting the student actors, working around their dialogue and working through dress rehearsals. He used to do this very thing back when he went to high school at Kalaheo in Kailua, circa the late 1970s. After graduating, he did one huge musical production in Hawaii featuring world-famous comedian Jo Anne Worley.
His most recent foray back as an adult working musician was on the Carole King bio-musical, “Beautiful,” which he called a bitch to do, because of the huge material and the pin-point timing.
For us, the best part of the high school musical, “City of Angels,” had to be the jazz performances. Even our son thought so. James (who used to play trumpet in school band) praised his dad for acting as the dominant musical figure in the orchestra pit, adding that the piano performed as its own main character — in the sound effects and the underlying score.
We couldn’t really get into the acting or the story within a story of a screenplay writer trying to make sense of his and his alter’s life for an upcoming cinematic project. We kept notices the gaffes in lighting and sound, the mistakes in dialogue, the confusion, the memory lapses, would the leading man Stine slip on those pages (no)? would femme fatale Alaura miss catching the tennis ball (yes)? But these are kids, this is high school. Give ’em a break. They did fabulously, all things considered.
But then, everything stopped when Jaidyn Lam introduced herself as Bobbi, the lounge singer who got away, in a powerful, all-out jazz number in the middle of the first act. She belted out “With Every Breath I Take” up on that balcony — and I completely forgot she was in high school. She looked and sounded every bit the part of a 1940s MGM actress, Lana Turner and Ava Gardner wrapped up in one lovely package.
The people in lighting shot her with dual shadows as a backdrop, which heightened her tragic character and the age of this musical setting. But that voice, WOW. She was just as good and just as compelling as a grown-up jazz singer at Tula’s or Jazz Alley. Hell, she could probably win the Seattle-Kobe Female Jazz Vocal Audition if she submitted herself in February.
Unbelievably, Lam took on two roles, that of the doomed starlet wannabe and Gabby, the filmmaker’s dutiful good girl assistant who almost has an affair with the writer, Stine. Two very different characters, two very different vocal performances. What a closing night.
Ed told me the kid who played the fictional gumshoe Stone, Simon Matisse, was fantastic to work with, very down-to-earth, very open to direction, and very cool. Singing wasn’t his forte. He earned that pivotal role through sheer force of personality, as an actor’s actor.
Another student actor, Luca Rogoff memorably played two roles: Buddy Fidler and Irwin S. Irving. She provided much-needed comedy relief with the snappy, show-biz-talkin’ movie-maker Buddy, stealing almost every scene. Ed said she was a delightful addition to the cast, crackling with wit on- and off-stage.
“City of Angels” as a story took a long time to catch fire with me. I easily followed the story-within-a-story narrative of parallel lives — one real, one fictional, both intersecting in the finale, though.
Chemistry plays a bigger role in whether a story like this works with general audiences, not all of them musical fans.
But the live music… That was the star.
All kidding aside, when I finally got home, I was able to get a closer look at the photos you shot of us last month. Wow. You really captured everything, the best and most authentic parts of our crazy, goofy family. That’s all we can hope for.
I come with tons of baggage as you know. I don’t think I’m very photogenic, on a good day. But when I really look at these photos, I like what I see. FWIW, it’s me, no hiding behind potted plants bullshit, or peeking over my handsome son’s shoulder, and you know I like that. I’d rather be real than fake (with every hair in place, whatever) any day. You know that too.
I’m sorry I’ve been bitching too much about how *beautiful* I don’t look (“I’m so fat in this fucking sweater!” wah-wah boo hoo!). Fuck that. I’m beautiful in my own way. You have helped me see myself in a different, kinder, more realistic light. For that and these awesome photos, I really thank you.
My family thought I was insane for insisting on doing this. It was like pulling teeth getting them to cooperate! They’re not into getting their pictures taken formally, at all. But after the two-three years we’ve had with James’ asthma and Ed’s cancer, I needed this — for us, I needed for someone I trust to capture our family in a happy time. I think we deserve that, even if nobody sees these photos but us.
I can think of nobody but you for this Herculean job of making us look so awesome.
Thanks for loving my family, Meghan.
Meghan Fortier of M.E. Life Photography shot us last month. She takes fantastic photos of newborns, children, and families. She even handles high school senior portraits, which I’m going to hit her up on when our son James graduates in two years — whether he likes it or not!
“Over $500?!” he shrieked during our drive back from soccer practice. “For pimples? I’m not worth that much money. Can you cancel the prescription??”
After reassuring my son that a) er, he is worth the $584.99 for the Epiduo Forte topical, and b) we’ll figure it out, I figured it out.
I did online research, found Good RX, looked up how to transfer Walgreen’s prescriptions to Costco, looked up Costco Pharmacy policies, scanned outraged posts on acne message boards — this one guy broke down the ingredients into adapalene (Differin) and benzoyl peroxide, printed out coupons, and talked over the situation with an equally aggravated, but clueless, husband.
“Main Point – NO ONE should pay for Epiduo. Ask for generic Differin. Buy some great benzoyl peroxide from your drugstore, or better yet – use Dans! Use them at the same time if you want. Use the benzoyl peroxide generously, without worrying about putting on too much retinoid, or how much Epiduo costs per drop.” —greentiger87, acne.org
My husband kept pushing for a cheaper resolution, as in, “Is it that bad?”
I emailed the dermatologist’s office after doing more online research. Head swimming, I prepared myself to pursue a less-expensive means of treating our son’s facial and back acne: ProActiv. Then, went to bed, worrying myself sick that we went to the dermatologist for nothing.
Good news: I woke up to a phone call from the dermatologist telling me that they phoned in a coupon to our pharmacist. Final cost for the Epiduo: $75. Whew!
All we had to do from now on is to adhere to a regular schedule of cleansing, topical, and moisturizer with sunscreen, as well as taking the antibiotics with a meal and a full glass of water, no dairy and no lying down for 30 minutes. Avoid the sun or use sunscreen, and they’ll see us for a follow-up in two months.
Our dermatologist PA gave us a list of recommended cleansers and moisturizers with an SPF of at least 30 to use: Neutrogena Clear Pore Daily Scrub or Cleanser/Mask with Benzoyl Peroxide and Neutrogena Helioplex Daily Moisturizer, SPV 30. They’re hard to find in regular drugstores — I know, I tried for two days — so definitely go online to order them (it’s cheaper too) for pick-up.
My son tried OTC acne treatments, mainly from Neutrogena. He gave it a good two-plus years before giving in and asking me to make an appointment with our dermatologist.
Let’s hope this works.
“When it went away, he was heartbroken, and then he realized everything he already had was not right either, and that was why it had happened at all. And that his life with his family was some temporary bandage on a permanent wound.” —Pete Campbell, “Mad Men”
It’s very late, or very early, between Thursday and Veteran’s Day Weekend. My wavy afghan eyes stray upward toward the flickering HD TV as “Mad Men’s” Pete Campbell quietly states a matter of fact to the woman he suddenly believes is his savior and his curse, Beth Dawes — fresh out of her second or fourth electro-shock therapy.
For them, it’s the late 1960s. I’d be four. The missing wonder years between Korea and my future as an Americanized statistic.
My arthritic hands dropped, my mind sensing what was to come, a sense of deja-vu and meant to be. Here’s the scene:
Beth Dawes: What’s wrong with your friend?
Pete Campbell: He got involved with another man’s wife.
Beth Dawes: And that put him in the hospital?
Pete Campbell: From the… complications.
Beth Dawes: Why did he do it?
Pete Campbell: Well, all the rave of reasons, I guess. He needed to let off some steam, he needed adventure, he needed to feel handsome again. He needed to feel that he knew something, that all this aging was worth something because he knew things young people didn’t know yet. He probably thought it would be like having a few tall drinks and feeling very very good and then he would go back to his life and say, “that was nice”.
Beth Dawes: But then he got sick?
Pete Campbell: When it went away, he was heartbroken, and then he realized everything he already had was not right either, and that was why it had happened at all. And that his life with his family was some temporary bandage on a permanent wound.
The last line… Maybe that’s why I like Pete Campell (Vincent Kartheiser), why I hold onto him like some sick fictional life raft through his petulant dalliances and outbursts, through this bizarre absurdist, voyeuristic, soft porn theatre with the shorthand, cracked dialogue.
Maybe… that’s me up there, living some vicarious altered life, re-living a second chance with the same, damned result.
“And that his life with his family was some temporary bandage on a permanent wound.”
I watch handsome men and beautiful women act out scenes that should be my life. She passes him, as he sneaks a look, closes his eyes, smells her hair, touches her face, kisses her hand, touches the hem of her garment like a miracle for a dying sinner.
He even touches the parts that bleed, bruise, and runs.
They gather around her, their shield of deference, regard, and awe providing for her a gentlemanly cloak to ward off the fat, ugly, Jaguar-driving predators. Noble knights in protest! Defend her honor!
None of that has ever happened to me. I wonder why.
Has any of that happened to anybody else? They say, yes. They post pictures and stream video of their Hollywood imitations.
Maybe they lied too.
Maybe we all do what we can to cover our permanent wounds.
I’m one of those movie-goers who thrills to behind-the-scenes shots and cast interviews, because they reassure me that all of this is make-believe.
What would ease my terror in watching movies like “Jaws” and “The Exorcist” were those backstage moments. Whew, I’d think, they’re just acting, none of this is real. The bad guys are really nice family men. The blood in “Carrie” is really made of corn syrup and food dye. That toy gun shoots flowers.
I’d gone through my own extraordinary transformation back when I thought about going into acting. Here I was, this nondescript high school loser turning into someone else — a force of nature who could make football players and bullies openly weep — at this stupid Campus Life winter camp with all these strangers trying to turn me onto Christ.
Something amazing really does happen onstage. I’ve witnessed and been an integral part of such life-changing transformations.
But, how far off are the roles to the people playing them? How close to home is all this so-called fiction?
As an avid movie and soap opera fan who binged heavily on 1970s sitcoms, I used to think that actors were these superhuman beings able to transform on a dime, go from extremes as seamlessly as we order our steak medium-well, from doting parent to this monster — with the snap of a clapper board. In some cases, I still do.
Bryan Cranston (Walter White, “Breaking Bad”) is my exception to the rule in a time when so many masks are falling off so many once-revered actors. I’m reading his autobiographical book, “A Life In Parts.” Incredibly eye-opening, especially in the “Breaking Bad” parts I skimmed over earlier tonight, where he details the darker turn of his main character, against his will.
Cranston’s one of the good guys. In the book, he said he tried to save his character’s humanity instead of letting the milquetoast teacher-turned-meth kingpin pass the point of no return. Killing hitman Mike without batting an eye gave the actor, husband, father, and decent human being pause. Cranston balked. He wanted to show us regret, compassion, the underside of Walter that still lived beneath that mask within a mask. He was overruled.
I remember watching that scene with total disgust. At the time, I was almost done with Walter White. As people, we need to hold onto some semblance of decency, we need to root for decent characters who come through in the end — or we die a little inside.
Right now, very bad things are coming out almost every day about some of our movie and television idols, and the Powers That Be behind them. In a kind of sick reversal of roles, their masks are coming off with each breaking news — and it ain’t pretty.
Kevin Spacey first captivated me in the 1995 neo-noir movie, “The Usual Suspects.” At the time, I thought he was the greatest actor of our time, unafraid to face the demons in every one of us. He was absolutely brilliant as Roger “Verbal” Kint, a con man with cerebral palsy. The role won him “Best Supporting Actor” at the Academy Awards.
Then, “American Beauty” happened. His over-sexed lech of a character, Lester, disgusted me to the core. In hindsight, was Spacey really playing himself? Was that all he could play in the end?
A few months ago, on the bankability of his movie stardom — and “The Usual Suspects” franchise — I tuned into “House Of Cards” on Netflix. Spacey’s character, the sexually deviant, presidential cutthroat Francis Underwood, repelled me. Again. “House of Cards” was nothing more than a highbrow, politicized “American Beauty. ” Deja-vu.
I kept waiting for Francis to show the humanity beneath the monstrous facade, a reason — any reason — for such madness. I kept waiting for the mask to drop, instead of the other shoe.
I even checked out YouTube videos of Spacey in cast interviews and on talk shows for any sign of humanity. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but in both the Netflix series and his interviews, Spacey gave me nothing but what sounded like scripted lines.
He didn’t seem very human to me, despite the smiles and self-deprecating punchlines. Instead, he seemed hungry for more attention, the accolades he’s used to, a happy, pretty world of pure imagination. I got the strong sense that if the interviewer didn’t behave, i.e., kiss Spacey’s ass and throw him softballs, that this actor would show us a side we didn’t want to see.
In hindsight, Spacey and Underwood’s lives intertwined a great deal. Both went to military school. Both suffered from a restless job-to-job father who was into Nazis/white supremacists, and god knows what else, if older brother Randy is to be believed.
In an Oct. 30, 2017 interview from the Daily Mail, Randy Fowler, 62, said this: “There was so much darkness in our home it was beyond belief. It was absolutely miserable…
Kevin tried to avoid what was going on by wrapping himself in an emotional bubble. He became very sly and smart.
He was so determined to try to avoid the whippings that he just minded his Ps and Qs until there was nothing inside. He had no feelings.”
By the time soap operas began their death spiral slightly before the 1995 O.J. trial, I began to ask myself if these actors were really good at disappearing into their characters, or if they were merely playing to their personalities a great deal of the time.
No actor is that good.
Makes you wonder who’s who, doesn’t it?
Do you ever go back, read your social media posts, and go, “Who is that insufferable asshole?”
Yeah, that’s me every few months — if I’m lucky. If I’m not, as the case is this fine year, it’s every other day. Self reflection’s a bitch, isn’t it?
I absolutely can’t stand repetition, in my commercials or relationships, and here I am saying the same damn thing over and over, stuck on the same damn themes back and forth ad nauseam. I’m no better than the next person nattering on about the weather and whatever Google analytics tells us to buzz about around the water cooler — for the 500th time.
Hell, I even listen to the same songs.
I also notice a bad habit of getting full of myself then scrubbing my timeline of every annoying trace, before hopping back on the hamster wheel. Why can’t I be content in who I am without looking over my shoulder for that shadow government or beating the simulation drum? Why do I use “and” and “just” a lot in my sentences?
From now on, I will make an effort to be more open to change, yet be — what is the word, tolerant? accepting? understanding? Not a raving bitch every chance I get when people don’t meet my exacting standards of originality at all costs while conveniently forgetting myself in the equation.
Healthy reminder: I’m the worst of the bunch.
I’ll try to come up with different topics to talk about, as well. Lord knows you guys are probably tired of the same long lost love, ooh look at me being tragic and hip trip.
I’m funny, too. Honest. At least I used to be. It’s just that I haven’t found much to goof on lately. The world seems even crazier.
Every morning, I dread looking up the news for fear of what I’ll find. Another mass shooting? What else did Harvey Weinstein, and now Kevin Spacey, do? More deviants crawling out of the woodwork? Trump and his bullshit?
Anyway, hi, how have you been?